Enigma
by MademoiselleBistouri
Summary: When a prominent member of society is murdered, Head Auror Potter is drawn into a world of uncertainty. As his marriage strains at the seams, Harry struggles with his inexplicable obsession with the beguiling, enigmatic woman implicated in the murder and his increasingly destabilised sense of self.
1. Chapter 1: Disquieting Encounters

Enigma

* * *

Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,  
Et mon sein, où chacun s'est meurtri tour à tour,  
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour  
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.

 _Charles Baudelaire_

* * *

Chapter 1: Disquieting Encounters

The first time Harry saw her, she was standing on the platform, wreathed in a veil of smoke. Her hazy form stood immobile against the flow of the crowd, this boisterous multitude of comings and goings: parents helping their offspring with unwieldy luggage, heartfelt hugs, tearful farewells, one last lingering look at the bright red livery of Wizarding Britain's most famous locomotive. The different stages of this ritual were playing out all around her, over and over, as it had for generations of witches and wizards. Indeed, she herself had just bid farewell to a wiry boy with pristine blonde hair and strong, aristocratic features. Every bit his father's son. At eleven year's old Scorpius Malfoy lacked the petulant swagger of his father's younger self, but the quiet assurance born of privilege had been evident in his poise as he stepped onto the Hogwarts Express.

The aforementioned father drew his wand and, with a lazy flick, a sinuous thread of light shot out, writhing to form floating digits: _11am_. Through the smoke, Harry saw Draco turn to his wife, whispering something in her ear. Astoria, that was what Ron had called her. The Malfoys made to leave, and as they walked past him, Harry finally got a good look at their faces. Draco gave him a perfunctory nod before turning away, eyes searching for the exit. He looked pensive, his patrician brow furrowed. Perhaps being parted from firstborn child was weighing on his mind. Harry found it strange to think of his former nemesis in the role of the caring father. He pictured Draco's younger self: glutted with conceit and yet starved of true paternal affection, pushed down a dark path in pursuit of it. Had Draco been able to shake off the spectre of Lucius Malfoy? Had he found space, amongst the racking shame and resentment, for so pure an emotion as paternal love?

But it was Astoria that monopolised Harry's attention. She wore an elegant sheath dress, which accentuated the subtle curves of her svelte frame. Her raven hair fell to her chin, framing a narrow, pretty face. Harry's eyes were drawn to the delicate arch of the nose, the high cheekbones, the pale, even complexion. Hers was a cold, disdainful beauty, hewn from marble. The sort of beauty that inspires not tenderness but hushed awe and causes lovelorn poets to waste away in the throes of lyrical excess. Yet this perfect picture of aristocratic elegance and reserve was somewhat troubled by her piercing grey eyes, flecked with hints of blue. They seemed to betray some elusive intensity, some ambiguous, restive quality, like a turbulent current beneath the placid ocean surface. The Malfoys turned a corner and disappeared from view, but Harry continued to ponder the scene he had just witnessed. Outwardly Astoria Malfoy appeared singularly suited to Draco, matching his pureblood haughtiness and bearing. But, wondered Harry absent-mindedly, what exactly lay behind that furtive passion, half-glimpsed in ambivalent eyes?

Ginny was whispering something about needing to get back to work soon, and Harry shook his thoughts away. His daughter, Lily, was still looking forlornly at the Hogwarts Express, from which her older brothers blew raspberries at her and waved frantically. The train was beginning to move off, its hulking frame accelerating away from the platform with a metallic screech, a screech that spoke to Lily of her own frustration and of fraternal abandonment. Harry ruffled Lily's auburn hair, so much like her mother's, and took her hand.

"It'll be ok Lils", he said placatingly. "James and Albus will be back for the holidays in no time, you'll see."

Lily merely huffed in despair but allowed her father to lead her towards the exit.

Ginny shot Harry a thankful smile. "Yes, they'll be back in no time. Anyway, I've really got to dash. I'll see you both this evening." She looked put out. "I'm so sorry to be working again over the weekend, but who knew the Chudley Cannons would end up winning the League? Hopefully the article won't take too long", she said. "Though I should try not to finish _too_ quickly, Ron would kill me if he thought I wasn't giving due credit to, how did he put it, oh yes… _the greatest underdog story in recent quidditch history_ ". In the years after the war, Ginny had made a name for herself as a formidable professional quidditch player, leading the chasers of the Holyhead Harpies to great success, but the responsibilities of motherhood and the creeping sense of being past her prime eventually led her to take a more sedate job as a sports journalist for _Quidditch Weekly_.

Harry responded with a thin-lipped smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Neither of them had chosen careers conducive to having quality family time, what with his considerable duties as Head Auror. And with the children heading off to Hogwarts one by one, Harry couldn't shake the niggling feeling that the situation would only get worse. Like many parents for whom every iota of energy is directed towards providing a loving, stable environment for their children, Harry dreaded the thought that without the vibrancy of youth that filled the Potter household with tinkling laughter and cheerful bustle, the adults would find themselves at a loss, forced to face the gaping hole of freedom and a relationship muted by the absence of a common cause. Despite these increasingly insistent reservations, Harry found that at present his face had settled into a well-rehearsed look of understanding. He even ventured a joke.

"I still think you could spare yourself the effort and just let him write it himself. He'd jump at the chance to wax lyrical about Barnie Bloom's sublime keeping skills."

The Potters continued this casual chitchat until they reached the designated Floo exits at the corner of the platform, at which point Ginny split from the group to head to work, throwing one last apologetic glance Harry's way. Harry sighed as he led Lily into a separate chimney. "Potter Residence, Godric's Hollow", he intoned. For an instant, the world was a whirl of bright green flame. And then they were gone.

* * *

The second time Harry saw her was in a rather more morbid context. The sprawling estate of Malfoy Manor stretched before him against a brooding, rain-swept sky. Harry pulled his blue Auror robes around him to fend off the pattering April shower. He took in the classically sculpted hedges, the lawns dotted with preening peacocks, and the wide gravel path leading to the manor building itself, which reared up haughtily in the distance. Fitting indeed. The whole estate was a meticulously crafted universe, designed to reflect the ancient nobility of the Malfoy line, a testament to their effortless superiority.

Harry rubbed his temples, trying to shake off an insistent headache. He had woken up that morning in a groggy daze, his drowzy mind lingering at the threshold between dream and consciousness, whirling with sensations: a heady floral scent, the sound of raised voices, the slamming of a door. _Ah, not a dream, a memory_. The previous afternoon Ginny had lured him into the living room, dimly lit by the soft glow of scented candles. A romantic gesture after a trying month of long absences. But the mood, initially tender, had quickly soured. Harry fought through the waves of pain radiating through his skull as he recalled his wife's words. _Don't you think it's time we, you know, brought another bundle of joy into this world?_ It had all been a carefully prepared trap. He shook his head wearily. He had dismissed the idea bluntly. Tempers had frayed. _Really though, another child? What an awful idea._

His current situation was in no way helping. It was going to be a long, tedious day. Harry quickened his pace, quickly ascending the stone steps leading to the Manor entrance. An auror, a young woman with mousy hair, was already waiting for him there.

"Morning Walters", greeted Harry, brow furrowed in silent enquiry.

"Morning, Chief. Come straight through, the body is in the library".

Walters led Harry into the entrance hall. The tenuous morning light filtered through tall baroque windows, illuminating a spacious interior lavished with embellishment upon embellishment. Their steps resounded as they ascended the grand marble staircase. The building was an impersonal place, one where any fledgling sense of intimacy seemed doomed to falter and fade, lost in the indifference of cavernous spaces, labyrinthine hallways, and empty rooms. _This is no home_ , thought Harry idly, as he followed Walters through endless corridors, before finally stepping through some particularly ostentatious doors and into the library.

Draco Malfoy's body lay in quiet repose, completely inert. His face seemed untroubled, serene almost, bathed in a hazy pool of light spilling in from the nearest window. He could have been sleeping. Only the dark crimson streak staining the carpet betrayed the grim truth, the morbid brushstroke of a deadly artist. The tranquil splendour of the room had evidently been disturbed: upturned chairs, a charred antique desk, books in disarray. One of the shelves bore an angry gash that had torn through several dozens of weighty tomes. A team of forensic experts were quietly combing the scene, painstakingly collecting evidence. Various parts of the room were awash with coloured light as the team traced complex patterns with their wands, subjecting everything to a battery of diagnostic charms. "The actual cause of death was head trauma", explained Walters, "He was found with a bloodied brass eagle statue lying nearby, though as you can see a rather vigorous spell fight also occurred."

"Time of death?" enquired Harry.

"The decay of the spell residue and the body itself indicate sometime last night, around 11pm", replied Walters.

"Have the family been informed?" Walters gave an affirmative nod.

"The wife is in the drawing room."

"I need to speak with her", he stated, gesturing for Walters to lead the way.

Astoria Malfoy was perched daintily on a chair in the drawing room, pouring tea into an ornate cup. She stood as he entered, and Harry noticed that the troubling intensity of her eyes that had so struck him at King's Cross remained undimmed. In fact, they seemed almost more intense as they locked onto him, some ill-defined emotion roiling insolently beneath the surface. Even Astoria Malfoy couldn't fully suppress the emotional strain of losing her husband, thought Harry soberly. The rest of her features, however, were carefully arranged in a neutral expression. _Beautiful_. The thought came unbidden, startling Harry as he moved to greet her.

"Good morning, Astoria", he began, before pausing with a frown at his thoughtless informality. His head was pounding again. "Forgive me, I mean Mrs Malfoy".

She returned his greeting, glancing at him curiously, and gestured for him to sit. The floral notes of the tea wafted invitingly around them as Mrs Malfoy proffered a cup to him, which Harry eyed somewhat suspiciously before accepting out of politeness.

He continued: "I'm deeply sorry for your loss. Rest assured that the Auror department will do everything in its power to get to the bottom of this." She was looking expectantly at him. "First of all, can you tell me whether you know of anyone that would wish your husband harm?" Even as he said it, Harry couldn't help but wince. They both knew full well that the list of enemies the Malfoys had made would make for rather long reading.

Astoria stared coldly at Harry. "As you know, my husband was not exactly a popular man." She paused, brow creased in thought. "I suppose there are various families that would harbour resentment towards him for the Malfoys' involvement in the war. And more recently my husband's business activities have caused…ill feeling with certain competitors. You don't achieve success without making enemies, Auror Potter." She looked pointedly at him. _Indeed_ , agreed Harry inwardly. He of all people was intimately acquainted with this fact.

After the war, Draco had gone into the potions business, mass-producing medical potions to be sold on to retailers. He had worked hard, been ruthless in his business practices, and had ruffled more than a few feathers along the way. "In fact", added Astoria casually, "Draco held a meeting with a rival potions company just last week. A Mr Caius, I believe."

"Do you know what the meeting was about?"

"I don't bore myself with my husband's work."

His interest piqued, Harry made a mental note to explore this avenue of enquiry. "And where were you at 11pm last night?" Harry's casual tone belied the incendiary implications of the question. A pregnant pause. The query hung awkwardly, menacingly in the air. Tension marred Astoria's pretty face, and she toyed distractedly with an elegant silver bracelet on her right wrist.

"I was with my sister, Daphne", she said with conviction. Her eyes, suddenly unnervingly blank, dared him to challenge her.

"And when did you discover your husband's body?"

"This morning, at around 10am. I stayed at Daphne's last night as I was feeling unwell. I called the Aurors as soon as I saw him."

"Would you say you were close to your husband, Mrs Malfoy?" More tension.

"Close is a relative term", she countered evasively. "My husband was a caring, hardworking man", she added, as if that answered Harry's question. "I respected him greatly". Same blank look. It was hardly an effusive outpouring of conjugal affection.

"So he never gave you any cause to resent him? Never any, ahem, incidents?"

Astoria rolled her eyes. "Auror Potter, if you are looking for a sordid tale of marital abuse, I'm afraid you shall be sorely disappointed. Let's cut to the chase. You think I have murdered my husband, I can categorically say that I have not. You are wasting your time."

Harry was taken aback. He looked away, trying to judge the best way forward.

"I am following a procedure, Mrs Malfoy. I'm sure you understand that no stone can be left unturned." He continued with his questions. Had Draco been acting oddly before he died?

 _No_ came the dull reply.

Aside from Mr Caius, had anyone of note visited the house recently?

 _No_ again.

After a few more minutes of unproductive back and forth, Harry decided he was getting nowhere. "That will be all, Mrs Malfoy. Thank you for your cooperation. Once again, let me extend my sincerest condolences." Perhaps understandably, his words fell flat, sabotaged by the lingering awkwardness of his previous accusation. "We will find your husband's killer".

Once again her eyes clouded with emotion. Did he detect a glint of panic? Sighing with frustration at the enigmatic woman before him, he exited the drawing room to re-join Walters. "Walters, you need to follow up on a Mr Caius, a business rival of Malfoy's who visited the Manor last week. It's fishy. I'll work on contacting Daphne Greengrass and check out Astoria's alibi." He paused thoughtfully. "I can't shake the feeling that there's something Mrs Malfoy isn't telling us. Make sure she's watched." Something was definitely off about her. Harry was sure that her practised poise and detachment were masking some rather more…turbulent emotions, and he was beginning to doubt his first instinct that what lay beneath was the sincere grief of a loving wife.

On the way back to the entrance hall, they passed another group from Forensics. They were standing in the middle of what looked like a potions lab, carefully levitating a heavy stone basin towards the door. A pensieve. A luxury item indeed, though well within the Malfoys' means. Harry stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the neatly ordered workspace. Innumerable jars of exotic ingredients lined the walls and the lab was perfused with the residual odours of previously brewed potions: the bitter tang of pepperup potion, the citrus notes of a calming draught, and something flowery, a cosmetic potion perhaps. Harry beckoned one of the team over.

"Is this Malfoy's personal lab?"

"Astoria Malfoy's, yes", came the reply. Harry's eyebrows quirked skyward.

"And the pensieve is hers as well?" A nod of confirmation.

Now this was intriguing. In the basin, Harry could see a pool of ice blue swirls lazily coalescing and then splitting apart in a mesmerising dance, indicating that Astoria had left some memories in the pensieve. That would explain why the team were working particularly slowly. Had Astoria been involved in the murder, he didn't think she would be so stupid as to leave any hard evidence in a pensieve of all things, but Harry found himself drawn to basin. Perhaps in these whirling threads of light lay the answer to the enigma of Astoria Malfoy, and maybe, just maybe, a clue in the investigation. He left the team to their careful work. Stepping out of the lab, he swiftly traversed the entrance hall before stepping back into the doleful morning light, mentally steeling himself for the long road ahead.

* * *

The Potter residence was quiet as Harry let himself in. It was late. After leaving Malfoy Manor, Harry had spent the entire day perusing the case file for Draco's murder. Even at this early stage he felt inundated with information, mind abuzz with all the potential avenues of enquiry. Heaving a deep sigh, he pushed away thoughts of corporate feuds and sordid crimes of passion. Instead, he revelled in the comfort of home. The Potter home was everything the Malfoy abode was not: small, unpretentious. Homey. Every nook and cranny bore traces of the happy, youthful life of its inhabitants: the odd toy poking out from improbable places, the photos of grinning Potters lining the walls, Lily's prized paintings. He slipped into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

"Long day, huh?" Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of hot chocolate, a copy of the latest _Daily Prophet_ before her. On it, Harry saw a photo of a smirking Draco Malfoy under the headline: _MALFOY MURDER MYSTERY._

"Oh, hi Gin", he replied. "Yeah, it's all a bit of a shock. Work's been crazy. What are you doing still up?"

She looked apprehensive. "I, uh… I feel bad about leaving things on such a tense note yesterday afternoon. I wanted to talk to you before I turned in." Harry tensed slightly. They hadn't had a chance to discuss their argument. Harry had been so incensed that he had stormed out of the house, spending yesterday evening in a daze, aimless and full of resentment. By the time he had got home Ginny had already fallen asleep. Harry decided to extend an olive branch.

"I feel bad too. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did." He paused. "I mean, I still don't think having another child is a good idea, but I didn't exactly put it in the most delicate way possible."

Ginny looked frustrated. "So you haven't reconsidered?"

Harry quashed a flash of irritation. "To be honest I haven't had too much time to think about it. But, no, I don't see myself reconsidering."

"I just thought that if we…", she faltered, searching for the right words, "it's been so difficult, what with the house being emptier than usual. And Lily will be leaving for Hogwarts soon. I just feel that now is a good time. With the others at school, we'll have more time for the new child".

"But why do you want a new child? Why do we need one just because our current children will be at Hogwarts?" It was a loaded question. Harry knew the answer, he just wanted to see if Ginny would face up to it too.

"Because we have so much love left to give", offered Ginny weakly, "and I feel that a baby would be good…for us." She averted her eyes from Harry. There was the crux of the matter.

"So what you're essentially saying is that we need another child to make our life rewarding? That you're afraid of it just being us?"

Truth be told Harry was afraid of exactly the same thing, but he didn't think that having a baby would do anything to solve the underlying issue.

"It's not like that. Of course I find our life rewarding, just the two of us. But, you can't deny that we've been drifting. We hardly see each other anymore. We hardly see each other in the evenings, we don't even meet up for lunch anymore. And when we do spend time together we're not really fully _there_ , you know? I just feel that another child would, give us focus, bring us closer."

"Don't you think we should be asking ourselves why we're drifting apart? Rather than trying to paper over the cracks with another child?"

Ginny sighed, eyes flashing dangerously. "But that's the problem. You never want to discuss anything. I've tried to bring it up but you've always been too preoccupied with something else." Her voice was choked. "I _hate_ that things are like this, but we never talk, we never even argue that much."

She was right. Their relationship had never possessed the stormy volatility of Ron and Hermione's marriage, but lately the ostensible calm felt increasingly like a symptom of wilful blindness and cowardly passivity rather than marital bliss. _This is the way the world ends_ , thought Harry wrily. _Not with a bang but a whimper_.

"I think we've both been working way too hard", he ventured lamely. "We…we should make a conscious effort to set aside more time for each other. I love you Ginny, and I don't want to drift apart. Work is going to be a real pain in the coming weeks, but I'll make the effort."

Harry looked intently at his wife in an effort to convey his resolve, his belief that they could halt the slow slide towards indifference. He wasn't entirely sure whether he trying to convince her or himself. He kissed her gently and drew her close to him. She gripped him tightly.

"You're right", she said simply. "Let's be greedy once in a while, let's block out the outside world and just do something for us, like we used to do."

"Like kissing in a broom cupboard?"

Harry could feel Ginny's smile against his shoulder. Oh to be a teenager again. They sat there for a long while, comfortable in each other's arms, pondering the implications of their conversation. Not everything had been resolved, indeed the question of the baby still loomed large, but for now they luxuriated in this moment of mutual resolve. It felt like progress.


	2. Chapter 2: Pieces of the Puzzle

Enigma

* * *

Chapter 2: Pieces of the Puzzle

"Auror Potter, how can I help you?"

Standing at the entrance of a magnificent London townhouse, Daphne Nott exuded the same haughty demeanour as her younger sister, though she did so rather more transparently.

Whereas Astoria's disdain seemed at times stilted, veiling some inner apprehension, Daphne's appeared to seep organically into her very surroundings, as if the imposing white columns that flanked her were mere extensions of her towering personality.

"I've come to enquire as to your whereabouts yesterday evening, around 11pm. It's about Draco." He added redundantly.

Daphne's eyebrows furrowed. "Ah yes, terrible business. You'd best come in. I haven't been able to reach Astoria at all now that your people are keeping her under surveillance." There was reproach in her voice. She gestured imperiously for Harry to follow her into the hallway, leading him into the living room. As with Malfoy Manor, Harry noted that despite the formal beauty of the airy, luminous space, the house seemed to lack the warmth imparted by the messy process of actually living. _Or at least of living with children_.

"In answer to your question", began Daphne once they were settled, "I was here, at home at that time." She shot Harry a meaningful look. "I had just finished dinner with Astoria and my husband and we were relaxing in the living room. Poor Astoria started to come down with something and we thought it best for her to stay with us for the night."

"Why not just Floo home?"

"In her state the Floo would have just made her feel worse." A pause. "Astoria and I are close. We rarely get the opportunity to see each other these days and I enjoy having her around." There was a defensive edge to her voice, but Harry instinctively believed her. "I had hoped she might stay the next morning, but she insisted on getting back to Draco."

"What time did she leave?"

"Around 10am". _Just as Astoria had claimed_.

Harry tried a new tack: "And would you say that Astoria was happy in her marriage?"

Daphne's lips twitched up in a jaded smirk.

"Are we every truly happy with anything, Auror Potter?", she mused. "She was happy enough. Astoria knew what was expected of her, though Malfoy would perhaps not have been her first choice. At any rate, she knew that her life was destined to be…this." She swept her arm lazily around the lavish room. "A gilded cage of sorts, but you get used to it."

Harry was taken aback by Daphne's candour, by the casual, almost dismissive way she described their lack of freedom.

Daphne leaned back into her chair, her svelte frame uncoiling gracefully. She moved with seemingly effortless poise. Her eyes narrowed. "Astoria had nothing to do with this murder. She may not have loved the man, but Draco was an…adequate husband. And in our world that is no faint praise."

The words lingered in the air as Harry processed them.

"What about _your_ relation to Draco? Did you know him well?"

Daphne rolled her eyes.

"He was little more than an acquaintance. I rarely interacted with him unless Astoria invited me to Malfoy Manor for whatever reason. If I may be so bold, you seem to be labouring under several false impressions."

"Oh?"

"You assume that this was necessarily a crime of passion, and that passion is most intense amongst family."

She was looking at him with an indulgent smile, as if dealing with a child unable to fathom the murky workings of centuries of tradition. "The problem with your assumptions is that the family ties of noble Purebloods rarely involve anything more than cold, mutual respect and unbending deference to tradition."

She sighed dramatically. "We have attempted, with mixed success, to suppress that basest quality of humankind: sentiment. To ask whether Astoria liked Malfoy, or whether I liked Malfoy is to try to apply a logic of sentiment, of passion, to a world that finds these concepts alien. If you suspect a crime motivated by intense hatred or love, you shouldn't be looking to the family."

Her next words dripped with irony: "Now, political scheming, _that_ is the remit of Pureblood families. Unfortunately for you, neither I nor Astoria had anything to gain from killing Malfoy. It's not like the Greengrass family lacks wealth. And my dear sister has always abhorred scheming."

Harry was once again thrown by Daphne's bluntness. He mulled over her words, struggling to ascertain whether she was indulging in an elaborate joke at his expense. He struggled to believe that anybody could really be so dispassionate.

"And yet you yourself just admitted that you are fond of Astoria", countered Harry.

"I did say _with mixed success_." Was the laconic reply. "But, let me assure you, I rarely meet anyone worthy of investing any significant emotion in."

Harry's questioning limped along after that. Could Daphne name anyone who might have a particular reason for attacking Draco, whether personal or political? Did Astoria have bad blood with any third parties? Daphne responded readily, but her answers proved unproductive.

"I'd like a written statement of exactly what you did with Astoria yesterday evening", he said finally. "Your husband will also be questioned by my colleagues."

With that, Harry dismissed himself. He trudged out into the street, releasing a sigh of frustration. It all checked out.

But Harry had been in the Auror game long enough to know that he should trust his instincts. And his instincts led him inexorably to Astoria.

* * *

Harry heaved a weary sigh as he pored over the mess that had swallowed up his office desk. Files relating to the Malfoy case lay strewn about, the aftermath of more tedious and fruitless hours of research. He shifted uncomfortably in an attempt to ease the soreness from his dozing limbs as he glanced over the mounting pile of information on Draco's numerous personal and professional ties. His talk with Daphne had not thrown up any real surprises, but he was frustrated by the general lack of progress and the intuition that gnawed away at him.

Poking out limply from under a pile of files, a 17-year-old Astoria Greengrass could be seen staring solemnly from a photograph attached to an old Hogwarts school report. Her youthful face possessed the same graceful lines as her older self, but seemed somehow warmer, less marred by that cold intensity that belied…what? Disillusionment? Arrogance?

Every now and then the young Astoria would cross her arms in boredom, before looking to her left and examining her school results with an air of self-satisfaction: a smattering of 'Exceeds Expectations' at NEWT level, with 'Outstanding' in Potions and Transfiguration. By all accounts, the youngest Greengrass had been a quiet and diligent student who had avoided the limelight during the upheavals of Harry's schoolyears. Harry certainly had no recollection of her having any particular ties with Malfoy's cronies during that time.

The other files traced the journey of the youngest Greengrass from graduation to her marriage with Malfoy shortly after. A clipping of the engagement announcement in the _Daily Prophet_ was nestled amongst the chaos:

 _Mr D. Malfoy and Ms A Greengrass._

 _The engagement is announced between Draco, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy of Wiltshire, and Astoria, daughter of Thomas and Hildelith Greengrass of London._

The traditional wording, curiously flat and impersonal, evoked not the warmth of marital promise but rather the matter-of-fact conclusion of a mutually beneficial transaction. Indeed, thought Harry wryly, from what Daphne had all but stated, the union _had_ been a well-calculated political move: a perfect match between two noble bloodlines. The way Astoria had spoken about Draco at the Manor certainly hadn't done anything to disabuse him of this belief.

Though the Malfoy name had been somewhat tarnished by their association with Voldemort during the dark years, the Malfoys still commanded a considerable fortune and embodied centuries of noble pureblood tradition. The Greengrass family had not been as willing to declare their submission to Voldemort, contenting themselves with quietly preserving their Pureblood family traditions and observing from the background, but both families shared common values, influence and wealth that could prove useful to the other.

Yet save for the concrete, publicly-recorded events that punctuated Astoria's life, Harry was having trouble deciphering the enigma of exactly _who_ she was, her fundamental motives and convictions. It was as if, after Hogwarts, a great part of Astoria's identity had been subsumed by her marrying into that most traditional of families. As if she had sacrificed herself (or been sacrificed) to the cause of continuing the Malfoy bloodline. How to pierce through the superficial, how to get to the heart of the mystery?

Harry's imagination couldn't help but indulge in flights of fancy. He was convinced she was hiding something, and despite Daphne's insistence on Pureblood distaste for anything so sordid as a crime of passion, Harry refused to foreclose that line of thinking. Had a marriage of convenience turned sour and led to a bloody fight? Was the devoted housewife secretly embroiled in some unsavoury business? Or was she telling the truth, merely a mourning wife wondering how and why her husband was murdered?

Harry felt oddly troubled by just how beguiled he was by this puzzle. _Beautiful_ he had thought upon seeing her at the Manor. The thought had once again wormed itself into his mind during the course of his research, leaving a vague knot of self-loathing and attraction in the pit of his stomach. _You know your marriage is going down the drain when you get turned on by the main murder suspect of your investigation. Pathetic, Harry._

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in", he ordered.

Walters stepped into the office and stared bemusedly at the piles of paper on Harry's desk.

"You know a simple charm would help you order all of that?" She noted chirpily.

"You know that I didn't promote you to be a smart-arse?" Harry retorted good-naturedly. "I assure you there's method in the chaos, sometimes." He and Walters had been working together for years. The small, mousy-haired 30-year old had developed a reputation for being as quick with pithy remarks as she was with her wand. She had proven herself an admirable auror, with an unnerving knack for reading people.

Walters merely rolled her eyes: "What did you need?"

Harry fished out a leather-bound diary from a corner of his desk, causing one stack of papers to teeter perilously over the edge. He held out the diary to Walters.

"This is, we think, Malfoy's personal diary. Forensics dropped it off this morning. Problem is it's been warded. I can't open it and I've tried all the standard procedures. Could you send it over to Cursebreaking?" _I thought I'd seen the end of Malfoys and diaries_ , he added inwardly.

Walters peered curiously at the elaborate embossed motif of the diary. The Malfoy family crest was emblazoned in the centre of the cover, while an intricate pattern of intertwined snakes flowed around the borders. "The man obviously had a high opinion of himself", she quipped. "I'll get it to Cursebreaking straight away."

Harry smirked, "Thanks, Walters. Oh, and where are we with the Caius lead?"

"Nothing yet, he's abroad on a business trip. I'm going to pay him a visit when he gets back tomorrow."

Walters took her leave and Harry sank further into his chair. It was 7pm. He was already late for dinner with Ginny, Ron and Hermione. In the back of his mind he could hear the spiny hands of his clock ticking away reproachfully as they continued their relentless march. Yet something held him back. Harry stood abruptly and walked over to a corner of the room where the blue glow of Astoria's pensieve cast dancing patterns of light over the nearby bookshelves.

Harry couldn't fully apprehend why he had ordered the pensieve to be moved into his office. He'd been telling himself that the device might be helpful in understanding the Malfoy case, though deep down he highly doubted he would find anything incriminating. He stared, as he had several times throughout the day, at the enticing swirls of memory whose ever-shifting form seemed to reflect the elusiveness of their owner.

Evidently Astoria had made good use of the device, which was packed almost to capacity, brimming with whirling tendrils of light. Harry drew his wand and began the delicate work of teasing out the individual memories. Flashes of their contents were visible in each silvery wake: he saw Astoria as a little girl, memories of Hogwarts years and then, _curious_. A particularly lurid thread of light drew Harry's attention. This one was special in some way. Harry brought it to the surface of the basin with a slow twist of his wand, ready for viewing.

He shot one last forlorn look at his clock.

A deep fortifying breath.

A sharp movement of the head.

And then he was plunging into the turbulent depths of the pensieve, falling into the labyrinth of Astoria Malfoy's past.

* * *

As if passing though fog, another world materialised gradually through the wisps of blue light. Harry luxuriated as the sterility of his office gave way to warm embrace of sunlight, the grassy aroma of summer lingering in the air, and the melody of chirping birds heralding the bucolic scene before him. He was standing in an orchard adjacent to an imposing country home, whose exposed beams and slightly crooked, sprawling construction evoked a bygone era. Two figures were making their way through the orchard, but from their increasingly frosty interaction, it was clear that the idyllic surroundings had slipped their minds.

"Father, I have little interest in Malfoy and I implore you to reconsider." Astoria, whose voice cracked with emotion, looked just like she did in her Hogwarts report picture. It must have been the summer after her seventh year. Around the time of the engagement.

Thomas Greengrass looked rather put out by his daughter's reluctance. "For the last time Astoria, I don't want to talk about this. I'm afraid the deal is all but concluded. It would be most…expedient for us to accept this union." His eyes hardened as he stopped in his tracks. He was a tall, wiry man who carried himself with the assurance of someone raised with an unshakeable sense of his superior status. His angled face was deeply-lined, his gaze imperious.

"Need I remind you that your duty is to your family, not to yourself. Other families may have debased themselves by giving in to sentiment, to the primacy of the _heart,_ " he spit the word out distastefully, "but the old families know that true longevity is rooted in tradition, in respect and in duty."

Astoria folded her arms in muted exasperation. It was clear that she had suffered the same speech countless times before. She had never been a particularly brazen spirit, never particularly rebellious, but a lifetime of education in the old values seemed to be warring with some deep-rooted conviction that she was on the brink of some incoming catastrophe, that this marked the moment her agency and freedom were to be subordinated to the intransigence of the father.

Harry observed with interest as Astoria's face clouded with conflicting emotions. He had never seen her so vulnerable, so unguarded. Not even after the death of her husband. Her lips trembled as she tried one last appeal, which came out in a ragged, incoherent stream that betrayed her distress.

"Father, please. I'll marry another suitable candidate….Blaise Zabini, he's…he's a friend of mine, I'm sure his father would be willing to discuss…if we just… I…I understand the importance of tradition. But, the Malfoys? What they did…with the Dark Lord…I loathe…"

Her father cut her off.

"You would do well to hold your tongue when talking of such sensitive matters", he warned. "While I may not have agreed with the method, the Dark Lord did espouse certain values that society, sadly, has left to rot. As for Zabini, do you expect me to go begging to his father when a more noble family has shown unambiguous interest? And when I have all but accepted? That would reflect most poorly on this family."

His eyes glinted coldly. "And I am not in the business of dragging my name through the mud."

Astoria heaved a sigh that spoke of defeat, of the dawning realisation that her own convictions were truly incompatible with her father's world. The gravity of this cruel fact seemed to seep into her very bones as her body slumped in resignation. Harry had to strain to catch the final capitulation: an incongruous, tormented whisper caught in the summer breeze. "As you wish, father".

No more words were exchanged. The birdsong seemed unbearably loud.

And with that, she walked away, slowly at first and then breaking into a stride as she plunged into the far end of the orchard. Then she was running. Far from her father, far from view. Her surroundings became a blur, the abstract play of light and colour. Maybe if she continued forever the world would stay wondrously impressionistic: free and mobile, not fixed and stagnant like the life that awaited her. Breathless, she finally crumpled by a gnarled tree as sobs burst from her mouth, almost despite herself. Deep, guttural and uncontrollable.

Harry, who had managed to keep up, felt increasingly uncomfortable with witnessing such a raw outpouring. Tears trickled lazily down Astoria's pretty face, suffused with anguished red.

He sensed that he should leave, but stood rooted in place next to her, overcome by pity _. So much for suppressing the taint of sentiment_ , thought Harry. Daphne's words now seemed utterly hollow, a mere echo of her father's tired dogma. Had she willingly underplayed the emotional toll that accepting her duty had taken on Astoria? Had Daphne even known?

The world faded and recomposed itself.

Astoria was standing in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. A young Draco, wearing dress robes, led her stiffly to a drawing room.

"The agreement has been finalised", he stated matter-of-factly. "You will not want for anything here; the house elves will see to that."

Astoria's face twisted into a rueful smile, as if contemplating the absurdity of a man who could think that the _house_ _elves_ could provide what she really needed. As if fellow creatures in bondage could do anything but remind her of her own plight.

Malfoy leaned in awkwardly for a perfunctory kiss, which Astoria returned absent-mindedly. Her expression remained blank, almost dreamy, as if her mind had retreated to some corner far away from the cold halls of her new home.

Malfoy left the room, leaving Astoria alone. She stared at the motes of dust trapped in the light filtering through the tall windows. There was no outpouring of emotion this time. No outward sign. Astoria Greengrass, soon to be Malfoy, sat unnervingly still, resolved to carry out her duty with dignity and stoicism. Harry lost track of how long stood there, observing this beautiful, desolate statue.

A sharp buzz pulled him out of his observations.

The luxury of Malfoy Manor melted away as bookshelves, files and other mundane paraphernalia of Harry's office spun into view. He steadied himself, fighting the disorientation.

 _Ah_.

Harry quickly identified the source of interruption: Ginny was attempting to contact him through the Floo network. The flames turned emerald green and his wife's face popped into view.

"Harry, you're late for dinner! Everyone else is waiting!" Harry could discern the tell-tale signs of Ginny's ire, which seemed all the more fearsome in the flickering fire of the hearth.

The furrowed brows, the tightened jaw, the glint in her eye.

"I'm so sorry Gin, work just spiralled out of control. Be right there." Before she could continue her admonishments, Harry cancelled the communication with a flick of his wand and made his way to the Atrium.

As he stepped into the roaring flames of the Atrium portal, his mind was still roiling with thoughts about the pitiful scenes he had just witnessed in the pensieve. The turbulent Floo journey did little to dispel them, and it was with great effort that Harry plastered on an apologetic smile as he stumbled out of the hearth to meet the expectant faces of his family.

* * *

As if through a veil, Harry was faintly aware that Ron was saying something inane about the Chudley Cannons while both Hermione and Ginny chided him. Meanwhile, Lily was tugging at his shirt and attempting to say something.

"Daddy? What's wrong with you?"

Harry realised he was staring blankly at his daughter, but his mind's eye was fixed on the image of young Astoria, distraught and alone in the orchard. It had been like this throughout dinner, with Harry slipping in and out of phase with the rest of the world. Ginny had kept shooting agitated looks his way, taking his half-hearted participation as added insult to the injury of his late arrival.

"I'm sorry Lils, just a bit tired. What were you saying?"

"Rose sent me another letter today with sweets from Hogsmeade! She said to say hello. James is being a pain as usual. Look at this…"

She pulled out a lurid safari-themed sweet wrapper from her pocket. In one swift movement she removed the wrapper and plopped its contents into her mouth. Chewing frantically, she then opened wide. Out of her dainty lips came a thunderous lion's roar. She tried again, and this time the harsh shriek of a baboon resounded throughout the room.

Her face scrunched in childish delight at the incongruous sounds. Eyes creased, cheeks stretched wide as she giggled uncontrollably, each new animal sound redoubling her mirth.

Harry couldn't help but be moved by the simple joy of observing his daughter. So full of optimism and energy, untainted by the weight of the world. This was precious. This was to be protected.

He burst out laughing and squeezed Lily tightly, even as his thoughts slipped away again. How could Thomas Greengrass willingly inflict so much pain on his own daughter? Harry was aware of his continued reaction to Lily's shenanigans, but he felt increasingly detached. He sensed the movement of his jaw as he spluttered with laughter, sensed his hands reaching to ruffle his daughter's hair, but his mind was busy processing the implications of Astoria's memories.

Though Astoria's alibi had been corroborated, it was clear that she was rather more resentful about the marriage than Daphne had suggested. Perhaps that initial revulsion had festered over the years. Harry couldn't rule out her indirect involvement. And what to make of Astoria's mention of Blaise Zabini? Harry hadn't had much to do with Blaise since their tepid interactions at Slug Club events and had no idea if he was still close to Astoria. He filed away this discovery for later contemplation.

"Earth to Harry. You there?"

Harry realised with a start that Lily had slipped away from his embrace. He looked up to see Hermione peering bemusedly at him. "Ron and I are going to head home now, it's getting late."

"Ah ok, it was great to see you two", he replied. His disorientation must have been clear to see. Hermione shot him a sympathetic look.

"I guess work is a bit hectic at the moment."

"You can say that again. Progress has been slow."

"You'll get there in the end", she stated simply. "You always do."

Harry was glad that at least someone felt confident.

"Let's hope so. Don't suppose you know anything about Astoria Malfoy. Or Fineas Caius?"

Hermione's face creased in thought.

"I know very little about Astoria. As for Fineas Caius. The Potions magnate? He's renowned for his aggressive research into quite controversial areas of Potions. He's got a fearsome reputation as a rather cantankerous and ruthless businessman who's willing to bend the rules, so to speak, to get what he wants. That's all I know, sorry."

"Bend the rules?" There was no documentation on this in his files.

"I mean there's no hard evidence. But you hear things working in the DMLE, whispers of suspect dealings and research methods. We've never been able to pin him down for anything though."

Harry made a mental note of that titbit. "Thanks Hermione, that might prove useful. I'm sorry I've not been great company tonight."

She laughed off his apology, her brown eyes shining with affection. Harry had always appreciated the sincere warmth that emanated from Hermione when she laughed. It was wholesome, reinvigorating.

"Don't be silly, we're here if you need us, even this useless lump." She cuffed Ron playfully as he stepped into the living room, adjusting his coat.

"Yeah, whatever she said", he agreed with a tone of exaggerated submission. "You ready Hermione?" He turned to Harry. "Good to see you mate, don't worry too much about work. Could be worse. You should see the backlog of work I have at the joke shop. Now that's _criminal._ "

Everybody groaned, Lily most of all. Her expression made it clear that, at the ripe old age of 10, she had become much too sophisticated for such silly uncle jokes. And on that bathetic note, Ron and Hermione took their leave of the Potters.

Later that night, as Harry settled into bed with Ginny, the cumulative effort of thinking about the case and entertaining guests suddenly hit him. His limbs felt heavy and sluggish as he eased into the mercifully soft mattress. Ginny, however, was not going to let his behaviour pass unchallenged.

"You were barely with us tonight." She said accusingly.

A pregnant pause. The reproach hung awkwardly in the silence.

"Gin, can we not do this now? I'm really sorry, I know I should have made an effort to turn up on time, to be a good host, but work has just been crazy."

Ginny's expression softened, but it was gone in an instant.

"I understand that, and I'm sorry work's been so hard…"

Harry waited for the inevitable _but_. "But we agreed to make an effort, to not forget _us_ in the craziness of work."

She looked so earnest. Harry's eyes traced those oh so familiar features. The slightly upturned nose, those blazing eyes, the pretty face lit up with her characteristic determination. Looking at her, Harry was subjected to a curious sensation. He recognised somewhere within him that deep-rooted affection, born of years of companionship and shared hardships, and yet he felt dislocated from it, from himself. It had been like that for a while now. He couldn't tell how long exactly. The apathy had set in like autumn chill: slowly, almost imperceptibly, permeating every fibre well before the fateful shiver, the moment of realisation.

Harry heaved a sigh as he fought off the onset of a headache. He measured his words. "I know Gin, I need to do better. I _will_ do better, I promise."

He leaned in and kissed her brow tenderly. Ginny looked only partially mollified but didn't insist further.

As Harry sunk slowly into the welcoming oblivion of sleep, his last thought was whether it was more distressing to enter marriage full of love and see it slowly crumble, or to go in with no hope for love at all. The forlorn image of Astoria weeping in the orchard floated tenuously in his mind before all faded to black.


	3. Chapter 3: Duty and Passion

Enigma

* * *

Chapter 3: Duty and Passion

 _Her lips were impossibly soft. Her heady scent, trickling like wine, drenched the air around him. As the kiss deepened she sighed appreciatively. A low breathless moan, dark with yearning, sketching the contour of his name. He worked his way to the nape of her neck, leaving a trail of gentle kisses, while raven tresses teased him with their caresses. His hands roamed over her bare skin, traced the curve of her breasts, the delicate waist, dancing ever lower. He paused to admire her. The cold, statuesque quality of her face was softened by the gentle play of firelight on her flushed cheeks, by the unconcealed desire written in her piercing eyes. Efforts redoubled, breathing ragged. Astoria._

Harry woke with a violent start. He felt warm and breathless. His head pounded. Beside him, Ginny was sprawled out comfortably, oblivious to her husband's distress. Harry turned to check the time: 7am. Outside the world was dark, only the barest hint of daylight tinging the horizon. Gingerly, he disentangled himself from the sheets and padded into the bathroom. His every nerve seemed on alert and he was painfully aware of the waves of desire coursing through his lower body.

A cold shower attenuated the arousal, but it could do nothing for the shame. As the water pelted his face, Harry tried to expel the images from his mind. He had had sexual dreams before, of course he had. But never one so vivid. He could still feel her breath on him. Invisible fingers brushed over his chest. _What's wrong with me?_

* * *

9:30am. Same office. Same pile of evidence. So why did everything feel so off-kilter? _I am legitimately losing it_ , concluded Harry, taking off his glasses and rubbing his temples to assuage the gentle throbbing in his head.

"Chief?"

Walters swam into view through a myopic haze. She was standing inquisitively by his office door. Harry put his glasses back on.

"Have anything good for me, Walters?"

She marched over to Harry's desk, depositing a sheet of parchment before him.

"This is Fineas Caius' statement."

"Give me the highlights?"

"There's not much to go on I'm afraid. The man's as foul-tempered as they say." Her face creased with distaste. "Was outraged by my disturbing him, even more so when I told him why I was there."

Walters eased herself into a chair. "He ranted about losing his business partner at a critical moment of development."

Harry's eyebrows shot upwards. "Business partner?"

"Yeah, it turns out that the meeting Caius took with Malfoy last week wasn't the first. They've been planning new joint ventures for a year now. Take a look."

She leaned forward to rifle through the file she had just given Harry. "There."

She was pointing to a detailed outline for a variety of joint projects. Harry scanned the page rapidly.

 _…_ _Caius & Co commit to providing their research and testing expertise to the Malfoy Potions Company, who in turn will assist with the following strategic areas…_

 _…_ _the following projects are currently in the pipeline:_

 _Prometheus: production phase_

 _Initial production went smoothly. Demand from resellers is high, we anticipate that…._

 _Morpheus: final testing_

 _Product is almost ready for production. Final calibration of the formula is in progress…_

 _Lethe: testing phase_

 _Initial tests promising. Some problems in the treatment of a key stabiliser to be investigated by Caius & Co… _

_Olympus: research phase_

 _Preliminary feasibility studies have proved problematic…_

Walters continued her exposition: "I talked with the senior executives at the company, everything checks out. They won't give us all the details of the products themselves though. Worried about the competition getting wind of their projects."

Harry frowned, absent-mindedly brushing his fingers through his hair.

"So Caius claims that he didn't have anything to do with the murder?"

"He went off on one about how I must take him for an idiot if he'd kill off a vital business partner. He kept ranting about how this would impact all the timescales and draw unwanted attention to what was supposed to be a secret partnership."

"Mmm, well we'll keep digging and see if anything comes up to contradict that picture. And you mentioned that he was abroad until today? Can anybody confirm that?"

"Yes, he was talking at a conference around the time of the murder."

"Ok, good work, Walters. Keep an eye on the situation."

Walters nodded, then paused.

"What about Astoria Malfoy? Anything new on her?"

Walters' innocuous question hit Harry like a hammer to the chest. The compromising images of that morning rushed back.

"Uh, well her alibi checks out." Harry winced at the treacherous quiver in his voice. "Both Astoria and Daphne claim that there are no grounds to suspect any great animosity between husband and wife. And Astoria seems to have little else to gain from murdering her husband…" Harry frowned. "But I think there's more to it than that. I've been doing some digging and I think Astoria was dragged into the marriage against her will."

Walters looked thoughtful, brows knitted as she pondered the implications of Harry's words. She reminded him of Hermione at times, in these moments of concentration.

"Why wait so long to do something if she secretly hated Draco?"

"I…I guess a lot can happen over the years. Bitterness can grow, and then one day something snaps. But this is all speculation of course." Harry tried in vain to suppress a swell of frustration. He felt like he was clutching at straws. "We need more information. How are Cursebreaking doing with the diary?"

"Still working on it, I'm afraid. Credit where credit is due. Draco knew how to protect his privacy."

"Make sure they get it to me as soon as possible."

The discussion over, Walters dismissed herself. As she left the office, Harry conjured a glass and poured himself some water. He needed a break from reading and writing reports. His eyes were drawn magnetically to the Pensieve. Draco might have known how to protect the intimate details of his life, but Astoria had left many of hers in the corner of his office. Perhaps, thought Harry somewhat desperately, it was in this formless, wispy pool of memories that he would finally discover something concrete.

* * *

Malfoy Manor, resplendent with ceremonial decorations, glowed in incandescent defiance against the inky blackness of the night sky. Lanterns dotted the wide lawns and formal gardens, bathing wandering revellers with warm light. The stark contrast of lamplight and shadow seemed to transform the grounds into a surreal world with two distinct faces: one of overt opulence and indulgence, of ball gowns and dress robes, tinkling of glasses and the swell of violins. Yet also of furtive pleasures, of stolen kisses in dark corners and secret spaces.

The Manor itself heaved with ebullient guests. The entrance hall was in constant flux, a writhing mass of bodies shuffling, stumbling, dancing in search of the next hedonistic delight. Impeccably dressed wizards and witches caroused through the ballroom, while the marble staircase and landing were lined with inebriated attendees who, seeking respite from the dancing, were engrossed in lively conversation.

The sheer scope of the revelry was breath-taking. Harry remembered reading about this ball in the _Prophet_ : a celebration inaugurating the Malfoy Potions Company, marking at the same time the Malfoys' triumphant return to public life. The Wizarding World's finest were there in droves. Guests would arrive, prim and proper, but soon lost themselves in the increasingly bacchanal atmosphere, any veneer of formality slipping away in the effervescence of champagne and laughter. A portly moustached man, the proprietor of the aforementioned _Prophet_ , was gesturing frantically, regaling his bemused audience with some outlandish tale. Flocks of women swooned over Godfrey Berte, the handsome face of quidditch's Falmouth Falcons, whose own gaze lingered on an ethereal half-veela model.

Harry himself had not been present, but he drank in every detail of Astoria's memory, every sensory delight. It must have been a year after her marriage. Despite lacking true physical presence, he picked his way carefully through the throng, instinctively jerking away from the occasional overzealous reveller stumbling drunkenly in his path. He was in the entrance hall, tailing Astoria as she made her way out into the grounds.

The balmy summer air enveloped him, a welcome change from the stuffy warmth of the Manor. Harry followed Astoria down stone steps, and then along a gravel path that snaked along the East Wing. She stopped by an elegant stone statue. This part of the grounds, recessed from the main lawns and blocked off by hedges, was sheltered from the merriment. The frenetic buzz of festivities fell away, muted and indistinct. Distant strains of music wafted gently in the breeze. In comparison to the ballroom it was a veritable oasis of calm, disturbed only by the intermittent giggling of amorous guests nearby.

Astoria tilted her head skyward, eyes closed, basking in the cool breeze. Immobile in her introspection, she looked at odds with the incessant flow of raucous merriment that surrounded her. In the distance enchanted fireworks traced fiery trails in the night sky. Careening light framing her statuesque form.

Harry was transfixed by the sight of her.

She was wearing a deep blue satin gown whose every curve, from the folds of the skirt swaying gently in the breeze, to the arch of the backless bodice, accentuated her natural grace. Her hair was done up in an elaborate chignon, while her alabaster skin glowed preternaturally in the lamplight.

A male voice, low and suave:

"It's all awfully tedious, isn't it?"

Astoria turned around, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I'd have thought that you of all people would be in your element here, Zabini."

Blaise stepped forward from the shadows, the picture of a nobleman. He was tall and extravagantly dressed in an intricately embroidered dress-robe. His jet-black hair was swept back and contrasted with the pallor of his narrow, handsome face, which at this moment bore a friendly smirk.

"Normally yes, I _am_ partial to a party. But it's all just one big ego trip for Malfoy isn't it?"

Astoria frowned.

"You know, you're talking to a Malfoy", she said curtly.

Blaise's smirk softened.

"I didn't mean…you know what I meant." He trailed off awkwardly, contrite.

The pair were standing side by side, observing the lights in the distance. Blaise brushed his shoulder against Astoria's. "How are you holding up? I'm sorry I've been distant these past few months, training has been punishing to say the least."

"Life is wonderful, Blaise. I have money, I have a Manor, I have servants." Her voice was an ironic drawl. "It's been the same routine. Reading, dining, lounging, walking along the estate, walking some more. One can never get tired of peacocks. Not to mention living with a man I barely know and whose past I find…problematic to say the least." Blaise shifted uncomfortably. "A letter would have been nice", she added as an afterthought.

"I'm sorry", he replied sheepishly. "I've been meaning to write, I really have. I'm nearly done with everything. I'll be moving back from Egypt in September."

"You going to miss nearly being decapitated by Ancient Egyptian curses?" Astoria's tone was teasing, but something in her eyes betrayed a certain jealous admiration.

"The Ancient Egyptians really did have a talent for imagining all sorts of horrible ways to punish intruders. It's all very interesting on an academic level, but no, not going to miss the threat of decapitation."

Astoria sighed bitterly. "You're lucky, you know. Cursebreaking. It sounds exotic, exciting. I wanted to do something with my life too. I thought about training to be an Auror, before all this…" She gestured dismissively towards the imposing façade of the Manor.

That piqued Harry's interest. He almost winced at the irony: from harbouring ambitions of being an Auror to marrying a former Death Eater. That must have been a bitter pill to swallow.

Blaise was looking at Astoria with startling intensity, betraying a depth of affection that intrigued Harry. His fingers, inches from Astoria's, twitched tentatively, brushing her skin for the briefest of moments.

"You know, I would have requested…"

"Don't. There's no use in saying it. Even if you had, it would have eaten away at you." She kept her voice resolutely impassive.

Harry struggled to fill in the gaps of their elliptical conversation. Had Blaise wanted to propose after all? Why would it have eaten away at him?

"At any rate, the outcome would have been largely the same." Her face was perfused with that same bitter resignation that Harry had seen in the orchard. "You see, in our circles, people like me are not people at all. At least, not in the conventional sense. We don't have feelings, or desires or dreams. We are placeholders: our role is to continue a noble line. A name on the family tapestry, no more, no less."

"You're more than that." Blaise's voice quivered. "The way things are, the role you play in society. It doesn't define you entirely."

Astoria merely stared into the distance, seemingly unconvinced.

Blaise moved forward slowly, planting a tender kiss on her brow. Astoria smiled ruefully. Her eyes were weary and desolate but tinged with affection.

"I should get back to Draco. He'll be wondering where I am." A pause. "I'm glad you're coming back, Blaise."

He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words, half-formed, stumbled in his throat. The air was thick with silence, infused with inchoate thoughts left unsaid.

And with that she was gone, leaving Blaise to his thoughts amongst the wheeling lights and the gentle throb of music.

* * *

It was a rather more subdued Malfoy Manor that greeted Harry as trudged up the main pathway later that day. The warm, colourful hues of Astoria's memory had been replaced with a decidedly colder, drearier palette. A gloominess hung about the place, accentuated by the dimming light. Upon leaving the Pensieve, Harry had resolved to pay Astoria another visit, intent on wheedling more information about her relationship with Draco and Blaise Zabini.

Astoria looked elegant as ever, though Harry detected a certain weariness in her gait. If she was surprised by his visit, she didn't let it show. Her face remained as hard and impassive as obsidian as she led him through the entrance hall, now dim and silent. They settled in the same drawing room where, all those years ago, a younger Astoria had contemplated her impending marriage.

"I hope you are here with good news about the investigation?" Her eyes locked onto his, challenging him.

"We are working on a number of leads, but for obvious reasons I cannot discuss them in detail. I'm here because I have some further questions for you."

Astoria's eyebrows arched upwards. There it was again. That elusive emotion haunting the cold façade. She flicked her wand lazily, pouring tea for herself and for her guest. Harry took the cup absent-mindedly. He continued: "Last time we talked you said you respected your husband greatly. And yet I have reason to believe that you were rather less fond of him when your engagement was announced. That you loathed him even."

Astoria's eyes flashed dangerously. "Let's dispense with the evasive language. We both know that you've been poking around in my memories. I can tell you now, whatever you see in the pensieve has no bearing on your investigation. It is true that I was…distraught at the prospect of marrying Malfoy. But I never hated him. I resented what he represented, yes. But even that faded with the years."

Her gaze seemed to pierce through him as she continued: "Not all unhappy marriages slide into hatred, Auror Potter. Apathy and detachment are, if anything, bleaker fates, wouldn't you agree? They reflect a lack of emotional investment. I couldn't muster enough emotion to truly despise Draco, let alone kill him."

Harry was stunned. It was as if she had sensed all the turmoil within him, the dislocation he felt from his emotions. He tried to deflect his own unease.

"And what about Blaise Zabini. Could you muster enough emotions to feel something for him?" The implication charged the air with tension, static waiting to release.

"Blaise and I are close friends. He never fully subscribed to the outdated traditions of our families. I appreciated his…compassion. But I assure you that friendship is all there has ever been. Or ever will be." Was it Harry's imagination, or did her voice sound tinged with regret?

"And yet you considered marrying him. You saw him as a better option than Malfoy."

"A young, vulnerable girl will say a lot of things when backed into a corner. In a moment of desperation, I thought of my friend."

"Do you see still see him often?"

"On occasion. His line of work forces him to travel a lot. But I can assure you that I have never taken Blaise as a lover." The word rolled off her tongue languidly, full of sensuous promise. Harry shivered. "And even if I had, would I really tell you?" Her voice crackled with defiance.

They were at an impasse. Astoria seemed to be considering something, brows knitted in her hesitation. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally came to a decision. "Walk with me Auror Potter. I've been cooped up all day."

In one smooth motion, she stood up and made for the door, not even pausing to see if Harry was following. She led him down the stone steps of the grounds, tracing the same path that Harry had taken in Astoria's memory earlier that morning. They wended their way along the façade of the Manor and past the stone statue, before cutting around the side of the Manor. A vast, placid lake stretched before them. Astoria breathed deeply, basking in the brisk air.

"I've always liked this part of the estate", she offered absent-mindedly, as if addressing not Harry but the very stillness of the landscape.

Harry didn't have anything constructive to add, and a niggling voice was whispering that he was wasting his time. Yet something drew him to Astoria. And there was a tacit peace in the silence, amongst the trees and the sprawling water, as if this new setting had reframed their conflictual relation. They walked in companionable silence for a long while.

"What I said about apathy. Have you ever experienced it?" The question was uttered innocuously, but Astoria's eyes, which she tried to keep averted from Harry, blazed with a sudden intensity that could not be veiled.

Harry felt a sharp kick in the pit of his stomach. The question awakened something within him. A thousand withered recriminations and frustrations stirred in their cage.

"I…I guess every relationship has its difficult moments", he forced out lamely. What else could he say? How could he intimate to Astoria that her question had inadvertently twisted a knife, long-buried, in a festering wound?

"It's more than just a moment though isn't it." She was looking at him inquisitively, insistently. "The feeling I'm talking about, I mean." For a split second, Harry thought that Astoria _knew_ about the pitiful state of his marriage.

"I'm sorry. I don't think I can relate."

She looked almost disappointed. "Excuse me for prying, I'm merely curious as to how things work with people who…arrange things differently." The euphemism formed an almost palpable barrier between the two, delineating two incommensurable worlds. One of rigid tradition and stoicism, the other of choice and sincere emotion.

The darkness had crept stealthily upon the grounds as they walked. Harry realised with a start that he should be getting home, and yet the sedate meandering motion of their stroll and Astoria's strangely inquisitive, almost dreamy mood had lulled him into a state of peaceful contemplation that he was loath to disturb.

"I should be going", he said finally and with great effort. He turned back towards the Manor, its imposing silhouette now surprisingly distant.

She acquiesced with a nod.

"One final thing, Auror Potter. The pensieve was a gift from my mother. Before she passed away. I would hope that you were treating such a delicate instrument with the requisite care."

"You can rest assured that it's being looked after. It is under my personal care", placated Harry.

"Thank you."

Harry was suddenly aware of how close she was.

"I'm keyed into the wards", she continued. "I can side-along apparate you to the main gate, it will spare you the walk."

Without warning her arm clasped his waist.

What ensued lasted only a few seconds but seemed charged with all the richness of a lifetime. Every fibre of Harry's being cried out with yearning. He drank in her perfume, revelled in the feel of her warm body, pulsing with life, pressed against his side. And then he was falling back into his dream, the world slipping away and fragmenting into those illicit images of her. Her lips, her breasts, her breathless moans. Harry couldn't quite tell if the apparition had already begun or if it was his own delirious desire that was reconfiguring his surroundings into this tumultuous whirlwind. Through the chaos, dream merged with reality, and he imagined that for an instant Astoria's eyes were shining with tenderness.

The world righted itself. Harry stumbled, dazed. _What was that?_ His legs felt weak and limp. His head pounded. This was not a simple case of schoolboy butterflies, but an overwhelming, visceral response. For a wild second Harry thought he might have been hexed.

The rest of his interaction with Astoria passed in an incoherent daze. He was faintly aware of bidding her farewell, before dragging his unresponsive body past the gates and clear of the wards. As the pressure of apparition squeezed his body once again, Harry caught one last glimpse of Astoria peering bemusedly at him. Then he vanished with a pop.


End file.
